“It was a bad day.” No-one disagreed with Cathy.
“Bloody fires meant I had to cancel my fiftieth birthday party,” grumbled Rhea, trying to lighten the mood. “I still turned fifty, though.”
“I’ll never forget standing around the corner from my friend’s place in Yarra Glen,” said Annie. “There were a few of us there watching fire crews try to put out the car that was burning. It was on its roof, flames leaping up to treetop level. I just couldn’t believe metal could burn like that!”
“What about the driver of the car?” asked Mary.
“They couldn’t save him,” said Annie, looking into the glowing brazier. “There were fire trucks nearby, fires in most directions. They got there quick, but it was too late.”
A plover cried out, a jarring, haunting sound.
“One of the clearest memories I have of the fires is Jason walking down the corridor of the primary school where we went for shelter,” said Laurel. “He was carrying a tub of water and concentrating so hard on not spilling any. He was twelve then and I’d never seen him so focussed on anything! And so brave while everything burned down around us.”
“I remember the sound of the fire front roaring towards us. It was so loud I could feel it through my feet,” said Beth. “Then the wind changed . . . I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t.”
“I’m glad it did,” said Rhea, putting an arm around her friend.
“And then other people died,” murmured Annie.
There was a solemn silence around the brazier as each of the women remembered the deaths and trauma that had raged through their community.
“But we didn’t,” declared Moira. “We’re alive and we’re here! Owooooo!”
The women joined her in a chorus of haunting discord. It was proud and sad, and its wildness let them pour their souls into the moonlit night.
The conversation had turned to politics. Moira was complaining about the difficulty growers like herself were having, trying to get a space at a local farmer’s market. The market organisers were choosing stall-holders according to what they thought would attract customers. Apparently local organic produce was not attractive to the buyer; instead they were freighting in produce from NSW and beyond.
“That’s just stupid!”
“No shit, Annie,” responded Moira.
“It’s typical, though, isn’t it? Modern capitalism is about profit rather than what’s best for the community. Destroying the environment is fine, just so long as you make money. Why support local business, reduce costs, including the environmental costs of transport; why not put profit first? That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” Annie took a deep breath, outraged on behalf of her friend and the world.
“And you expected better than that?” Rhea was surprised. It all seemed clear to her. “All right then,” she declared. “It’s my turn to get on the soap box.
“I’m a communist at heart, right? Property is theft. This world belongs to every-one, but capitalists monopolise resources to cater to their greed. They plunder the earth and grow fat while millions starve. Governments are influenced by the wealthy and powerful, so they don’t act to correct this injustice. Democracy doesn’t do much better than a dictatorship – the problems are just different.
“And then there’s the impact on the environment. You see, the will of the majority is not always right. But the media encourage rampant consumerism – they raise the expectations of the affluent beyond what is needed, a thousandfold, and demand drives the forces which are raping our planet. Personal greed is a huge part of environmental disaster, but it is not acknowledged. If anything it is encouraged, because,” and here Rhea began pronouncing words slowly and emphatically, “it suits the capitalists to keep us in their control pandering to our baser instincts.” She finished with a shrug and a prim nod. “Your “farmer’s” market is just what you should expect.”
“I remember you talked about people’s moral compass once, Rhea. I like that image,” said Cathy. “I think people’s compasses have been turned in the wrong direction. We’re so caught up in the cult of me . . . that we all should be able to have whatever we want. It’s not right. We should be thinking about how we can help the people around us instead. After all, our communities are the places where we live. They’re home!”
“You and me Cathy!” agreed Rhea. Then she chanted, rich and clear, “The workers, united, will never be defeated!”
“Okay Rhea,” said Moira, “but communism doesn’t work either. Look at the corruption in China. Extremism everywhere tends to be really f***ing brutal. Communism isn’t the answer. You got a better idea?”
“I hear what you’re saying, but true communism doesn’t exist anywhere in the world,” said Rhea sadly. “Marx saw socialism as a step towards communism – China turning towards capitalism would not be part of his plan. He thought the working classes would revolt against oppression – he didn’t foresee a world where the working classes were bought with promises of wealth.”
“It’s all about money, isn’t it darlings?” Mary suggested.
“And governments consistently fail to put limits on people whose greed for wealth and power has no morality,” Rhea added.
“Asbestos, thalidomide, oil spills and MacDonalds destroying rainforests for beef. Yep, governments have been real effective at putting limits on human greed.” Annie could not keep the bitterness from her words. The voices that had haunted her on the journey here were threatening to burst free. Drunk as she was, did she dare tell any-one about her vicious dreams . . . and the voices?
“We’re restricting ourselves to what is, instead of thinking about what might be,” suggested Cathy. “Human beings are so clever. Surely we can find a better way to do things?”
“How do we save the world?” asked Annie, softly.
And the women continued to talk, putting forward ideas that might work to fix the system. Until Annie interrupted.
“You know, it doesn’t matter what we do. If we don’t stop global warming, there’s no point planning for the future.”
“Always the optimist,” commented Moira as she turned to warm her back. Firelight teased at the women’s faces, contending with the silver light that enchanted the rolling paddocks below their eyrie.
“People just have to stop,” insisted Annie. “What is so difficult about that! We know what’s causing the problem. It’s not a mystery. And it’s been done before. Remember the hole in the ozone layer? CFCs are banned now. The hole is no longer a problem.”
“It’s the same as the tobacco thing, really, isn’t it?” added Cathy. “There’s a bunch of people making money so they hide the evidence that their product is harmful; pay people to discredit the scientific evidence; take people to court to try to avoid justice.” Cathy shook her head. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe that sort of thing is allowed to happen.”
“But it is!” The words sobbed from Annie. “That’s why ‘the people’ have to get together and act. We can’t trust the bosses and the politicians. They love their profit more than they care about the people they are dooming to a bleak future.”
“They probably figure they’ll have enough money to save themselves,” said Beth.
“And sod every-one else!” declared Mary as she raised her glass in a barbed toast.
“So what exactly do you think should be done?” asked Beth. “What’s your plan?”
“I don’t have a plan,” Annie responded. “But I do know what needs to happen. Somehow, people have to organise themselves. Get more and more people to come on board and . . . well, stop. Every-one has to stop doing or using anything unnecessary. If it harms the planet we have to stop doing it.”
“It’ll never work.” Moira’s voice was flat with reality.
“I know,” said Annie, softly; sadly.
“People are too selfish. We all like our comforts.” Laurel was lounging in the glow from the brazier.
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br /> “You grieve for the world.” Mary, still and wise in the firelight, gazed at Annie and echoed the thoughts of the other women. “You see what’s coming, don’t you?”
Yes, thought Annie, wishing she could close her eyes against the visions of her dreams and the voices that would not leave her. “Yes,” she replied, “but who am I? ‘I am no prophet – and here’s no great matter’.”
“You’re quoting poetry again,” accused Moira.
“You know,” Beth suggested, “in times of war people accepted rationing and did without. People coped. What we face with global warming is a bigger catastrophe than war. It will affect every-one. The whole world.”
“Remember the fires,” said Laurel. “The way the whole community helped out. When people of good will work together they can do amazing things.”
“I remember,” said Annie. “The clothes and linen, the roof over my head. People took such good care of us.”
In the background, Rhea softly sang, “The people, united, will never be defeated.”
“So,” demanded Moira. They had solved the problems of the world – it was time to move on. “We rally the community to end global warming, put in decent governments, change things so resources are shared more equally. Anything else?”
“Stop all environmental degradation,” Annie insisted, “and reduce population too. That’d help.”
“There you have it.” Laurel stamped her foot three times on the boards of the verandah. “Sorted out the world. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Dance!” insisted Moira.
With the volume turned up and vodka in her veins, Annie surrendered to the beat. Her feet moved to the rhythm; her hips pulsed and her hands drummed the air. As her body rocked and swayed, a human metronome, her mind was calm in the arms of the music. Her worries and fears flowed out from her and into the night, released by the dance.
Dancing, drinking, sharing their thoughts; these nights had begun after the fires as a way for the women to let off steam and support each other. No two nights were at all the same, as the participants varied, rather like the weather. Tonight was mild, with a few light clouds, seven women and little chance of rain.
“Let’s sleep together under the stars!”
Mary’s thought led to half an hour of activity as swags and old mattresses were found and dragged out to a spot near the house that was reasonably clear of animal manure. Bedding was hauled onto the mattresses, then beds were sampled and adjusted to avoid lumps in the ground.
But before bed there was more dancing and drinking and talking and howling while the full moon sailed overhead.
As she drove home next morning, a belly full of Moira’s fresh eggs and bacon, Spud dozing contentedly in the back of the car; the events of the evening danced around in Annie’s mind. Although she chuckled as she sorted through random memories, her inner voice persisted with a question.
How do we save the world?
Chapter Three: The Book Club
The rumbling under Annie’s feet became more insistent and the world began to roar around her. Flood! Looking up she saw a wall of brown water that had swallowed the distant town. She turned to run, but was too late.
As her body was picked up and tumbled, battered by debris, terror seized Annie. The tightness in her chest became painful and the world was a dark whirlpool of fear and pain.
Then she was clinging to the top of a tree, somehow surveying a world that had been washed away. Debris surged past her: branches, a bloated kangaroo, a man in a business suit, a car floating belly up, wheels turning uselessly as it burned. The wind threatened to tear Annie from her perch and plunge her into the turgid waters below.
The clouds above roiled and boiled. Thunder heralded a voice that rattled the world, churning the floodwaters and shaking Annie.
“This is your fault!”
Annie shrank at her guilt, overwhelmed by the chaos around her. Lightning reached down from heaven, blasting her from her treetop. She fell towards the hungry waters . . . and fell, and fell, and fell.
She landed, with a gasp, in her bed, suddenly confused by the warmth and familiar comforting smells. Spud pushed at her arm again, concerned, and she reached out to stroke his head.
“Thanks for waking me up, mate. That was a bad one!”
There are patterns to our days. Annie woke in the dawn and exercised, walked the dog and went to school, where she lived within the timetable, playing musical classrooms when the bell rang. After work there were always tasks to complete: housework, cooking, repairs to her “real” home, a veggie patch to bring back to productive life and, of course, walking with Spud.
Weekends had their routines as well, making beds and mopping floors, catching up on preparation and correction for school. There was space for longer walks, but there was also room to step out of accustomed roles and rhythms. Moon nights at Moira’s, which happened randomly three or four times a year, coinciding with the full moon, were among these events.
There was another occasion that Annie looked forward to every month (when it wasn’t cancelled or postponed). The Book Club had formed when the “founding” women learned (over a social drink during the regular get-together at the local CFA station) that they had all entertained the notion of being in such a club, but didn’t know of one. The group had been running for nearly three years now: towards the end of their first year they had even considered naming themselves “The Brigadoon Book Club”.
“After all,” Rosalba had said, “we move around from place to place and change our meeting dates at short notice because someone needs more time to read the book. Don’t you sometimes think that we are almost mythical,” her voice dropped to a mystical hum, eyes glancing about in awe as her hands wove magic gestures, “and likely to disappear into the mists?”
The meeting at Bonnie’s followed the usual pattern. Women arrived with plates of food, complimenting one another’s efforts (even if it was just cheese and biscuits) and began chatting about work and family. Effort was made to include the man of the house in their conversation – the club was not intentionally for women only, but no men had been brave enough to join.
This night’s meeting was special: the book they had chosen to read was written by a local author, who had agreed to take part in their forum this evening.
Reading Sandy’s book had been eye-opening. Annie found it humbling to sit and talk with a woman whose childhood had been overshadowed by domestic violence, innocence lost so young to abuse; to then face the devastation of a psychotic illness that saw her repeatedly institutionalized. Yet here she was, laughing with them as she discussed her on-going troubles.
Annie had to smile when she saw the card that Sandy passed around – her business card – that listed her occupation as “Poet, Lunatic, Insanity Consultant”. It was not possible to feel anything less than awe at the spirit of a person who had been dealt such a difficult hand, but refused to let it stop her.
As the evening progressed, conversation ranged over many aspects of the book and Sandy’s life. The women used the opportunity to deepen their insight into the struggle to function with mental illness.
“I think the madness feeds off whatever is available. I had been obsessed with religion, so that was the form my delusions took,” explained Sandy, responding to a question.
“Ah yes. Your delusions. My personal favourite was when I gave birth to the next messiah,” said Rosalba, who had been a friend of Sandy’s for many years. “It was a little disconcerting at the time, but I really appreciated the egalitarianism of your madness. The next messiah should be a woman.”
“How do you know Sandy wasn’t right? How old is Katie now? Christ didn’t declare himself until he was in his thirties, you know.” Essy was definitely stirring the pot.
“Oh.” Rosalba struck a hopeful pose. “So she might still be the messiah?”
“Was it a virgin birth?” asked Annie.
Rosalba needed to
think carefully; after all, it was a long time ago. “No . . . No. I’d remember something like that. Damn! I was hoping there’d be some perks to this.”
“This use of religious symbolism interests me,” said Cora when the laughter ebbed.
“Because of your beliefs?” asked Essy.
“I suppose so. I am the token Christian, after all. I just wondered whether you think there is any special significance to the religious symbolism.”
“I think it has to do with the power of the symbols,” said Sandy. “Christian symbols are so much a part of our culture. And then, of course, I spent so much time pretending to be a Catholic.”
“I remember you saying, in the book, that a Hindu psychotic might hallucinate Krishna,” Essy commented.
“Yes. So much of who we are is bound up with the culture and society where we are raised.”
“Catholicism is so heavy on the guilt trip, though. That couldn’t have been good for you.” Bonnie was not fond of religion.
“I don’t think religion’s good for any-one,” responded Rosalba. “Sorry Cora.”
Cora shrugged and smiled. “What I really liked about your book,” she said, diplomatically changing the topic, “was the way it gave me an insight into what it is like to suffer from schizophrenia. I really had no understanding, or at least, what you described was so different to what I expected.”
“There have been so many books and films that have led people to believe that schizophrenia is about having multiple personalities,” answered Sandy, “but that’s really a very rare condition.”
“We don’t understand mental illness, do we? There’s so much stigma attached to it,” Annie mused. As Sandy answered, Annie’s thoughts were on her own concerns. Am I really mad? she wondered. What would they think if I spoke about the voices in my head? Sandy’s words were not reassuring.
“It’s hard not to feel the stigma. The way people have been treated in the past; burned at the stake, lobotomised . . .”